Between Heaven and Hell
by The Star Room
Summary: For the first time in months, Castiel has a day to himself. He rents a motel in Milton, Pennsylvania, a small town tucked away from the world, presumably where he can have some space to think. Of course, it's a little hard to think when you're sharing a bed with a demon. / Megstiel


It was the first silent morning in weeks. No apocalypse, no leviathans, no prayers for Castiel to answer. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that couldn't be achieved by humans.

The motel room was empty save for a couple chairs, an ancient television, and a bed with gingham covers and linen sheets. Cas had rented it with a fake credit card - a habit picked up by Dean and Sam, to his eternal chagrin. Still, it was homey and convenient, tucked away in the small town of Milford, Pennsylvania, far away from Route 66 and the endless asphalt Castiel had learned to call home. The room was warm and it smelled of cinnamon and the angel liked the smell of cinnamon.

Of course, the room also smelled of sulphur. But he didn't mind that much either.

Meg lay with her head resting on his shoulder, bare skin on bare skin. She'd been silent for the last few hours, dozing or pretending to doze, her breaths deep and even. Castiel kept his eyes open, not needing sleep, instead staring up through the ceiling and watching Heaven from afar. He could see it even from here, just barely. It was like seeing a tiny flame flicker in the distance, and within that flame a whole world of resting souls.

His chest rose and fell as Meg stirred beside him.

"You're doing the creepy staring thing again," she mumbled, her voice low and drowsy.

He blinked, pulled away from his thoughts of Michael and Raphael. He watched as Meg turned to face him, an imprint of the patterned comforter etched into her cheek.

"I apologize. I was distracted," he said.

"Watching Heaven again? I bet it's bumping this time of the morning," she said sarcastically, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. _7 am, _it read. Too damn early, in her opinion.

"No," Castiel replied, "Heaven is at peace. It has been for a while now." He turned back to look at that little flame, a white light, and extended his Grace as far as it would go.

He could almost _feel_ the tranquility in Heaven. After all, there was nothing to disrupt it anymore. No Michael or Lucifer chasing their tails, no Raphael in her exhaustion and insolence, and now no Castiel in his misguided righteousness. It was as it once had been, when Castiel was a young angel. In those days, he had patrolled the sectors of Heaven with his first garrison, led by Raphael, and together they'd watched the pieces of Heaven manifest as more souls came to rest in paradise. God worked in beautiful ways - the trees had flourished right in front of him, the houses built brick-by-brick, thousands of memories replayed and repeated. Those days had been simple and blissful. There had been little to fight about, little to fight _for_, back then.

Lost in his memories, he almost didn't hear Meg speak up again. This time, the tone of her voice surprised him. It wasn't mocking or sardonic; it had dipped down low, almost to a whisper.

"What does it feel like?" she was saying. The question passed her lips before she could stop it, before she realized what she'd asked. There was no retrieving it now, though; she let it float in the air like a loose page kicked up in the wind.

"It?" Castiel asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Heaven, Cas. What does it feel like?"

He leaned back against the pillows, momentarily stumped. It was hard to find the right words, honestly. Sometimes English still escaped him; it was easier to describe beauty in Enochian.

Finally, he settled upon an answer. "Home," he told her. "I think it feels like home." His fingers laced through her hair, drumming gently against her back.

"Why would you ever leave?"

"I believe the idiom, 'a bird must fly the nest,' applies to this situation."

Meg snorted. "Hardly. You're an angel, not a sparrow, Clarence."

He nodded. "Still. The meaning is accurate."

"I don't think so. I don't think you left because Mom and Pop were giving you a hard time. You were looking for something, something you thought only Deano and the Giant could provide."

Cas turned his head to meet her gaze, half-smiling. "You are inquisitive for a demon."

She rolled her eyes. "And you're dumb for an angel." She turned around, ready to get out of bed and make coffee. As the sheets slipped past her thighs, Castiel caught her wrist.

"Wait, Meg."

"What is it, featherbrain?"

The question caught in his throat. He looked at her in a way that almost made her uncomfortable; a serious, penetrating look, his blue eyes shining in the dim lighting.

"Cough it up, kiddo," she ordered, waiting.

He searched her face, calculating his options. One on hand, his question could make her angry. It could make her livid, enough that she'd refuse to speak to him for days. But on the other, it was possible he could reach a point of importance to her. He could make progress.

He took a shot in the dark.

"Meg. What does Hell feel like?"

She stared at him, like he'd asked her something in gibberish. This wasn't the first time she'd heard the question, of course, but it was certainly the only time an angel had ever asked. Particularly an angel like Castiel.

"Wouldn't you already know? You've been there," she pointed out.

"Yes. But what does it feel like for a demon?"

His innate, almost childlike curiosity fed this question, she knew, but beyond that she could sense his empathy. Not pity, no - Castiel did not pity Meg and never would. Which was good by her; she didn't want to be pitied. But empathy was different. He wanted to understand her.

She exhaled. "Hunger. Like you've been starving for a decade and the world's best pizza buffet is just beyond the glass. Not a fun feeling, I promise."

He continued to watch her, waiting for her to elaborate, explain.

"I don't know," she continued, seeing he wasn't going to drop the topic. "It feels lost. Like everything you cared about is gone and all you want is _to _care about something again, to fear and to follow someone who can convict you." She paused. "You want a cause. 'S just not easy to find a good one."

"And the rest? The torture?"

Her lips twitched. "Mmm. Yes, well, that's a conversation best addressed when we aren't both naked."

Done talking, she reached over and pressed her palms against his shoulders, pushing him into the mattress. Ceasing his questions with a kiss, she wrapped a leg around his waist, settling her fingers at the nape of his neck.

His eyes immediately closed, his back arched. His curiosity was forgotten as he gritted his teeth, his skin tingling when Meg brushed her lips along his jaw.

"Put up or shut up," she muttered, and he grinned.

She liked seeing him like this, how he relaxed beneath her, how easily he responded to every touch and motion of her body. It was more than just his vessel moving - it was his Grace, curling and embracing her with that powerful warmth characteristic of angels. It burned a little, was almost painful before it became soothing. She sometimes forgot darkness and light were not made to be one, demonic souls and angelic souls not made to touch.

"What does this feel like?" she asked, her breath mingling with his, hot and heavy. He planted a kiss at her collarbone, at her jaw, near her ear. "Sacrilege?"

"No," he answered, hands at the small of her back.

"What then?" She paused, her mouth resting at his forehead.

She felt him smile against her shoulder. "It feels like free will."

Meg sat up, meeting his gaze and almost laughing at the way he smirked, eyes dancing, excited and alive and more than just an angel. Cas had found his purpose once again, had decided his route in life, his path back to his Father. It was an unusual course, but he seemed to enjoy challenges. They certainly taught him to learn from mistakes.

"Free will. Huh. Have to admit, has a nice ring to it," she replied. "Free will and sex with an angel. Next thing you know, demons will be baking pies for the neighbors."

"I don't believe that's likely," Castiel replied, but she silenced him once more, drawing him in with her touch. Her scarred face glowed above him, her true face, beaten and shadowed, but it didn't repel him. It did not set him on edge, like it did with all the other demons. Instead, it filled him with an odd sort of hope, a knowledge that not all was lost between Heaven and Hell.

He stayed in bed with her the entire morning, talking little, mostly resting and listening and watching the way the sun rose while Meg fiddled with her split ends and complained about the poor quality of coffee in the motel. He stayed until a prayer woke him from his thoughts, and even then, it was hard to pull himself away. He tried to kiss her goodbye, thinking it customary of most human couples, but she smirked and turned away.

"Leave something for the imagination, Clarence," she said. "Now go answer your booty calls."

He flew off without another word, leaving only the faint echo of fluttering wings in his wake. Meg turned to the kitchen and set a PB&J sandwich aside, knowing he'd want it when he came back.

And whether it was hours or weeks from now, her unicorn would always come back.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Agh, Megstiel. It's my hawaiian bread. Anyway, I wrote this at 5am on a Friday, because apparently that's how my mind likes to roll. This is my first time experimenting with this lovely couple, so please let me know what you think!


End file.
